


This is the Start

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: violin au [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I really can't tag but basically how Enjolras accidentally forms les amis in the violin au, enjolras plays violin, formation fic, violin au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:58:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Enjolras helped his friends, and the one time they helped him. (Or, Enjolras forms Les Amis.)</p>
<p>1. Feuilly<br/>2. Jean Prouvaire<br/>3. Joly<br/>4. Bahorel<br/>5. Bossuet<br/>6. Grantaire</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the Start

It’s Enjolras’s turn to choose the music at Starbucks, so everyone is currently listening to Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances from _West Side Story_. It’s appropriate, since he works on the infamous Broadway, and a lot of the patrons are theater-goers and theater-makers. A few times, violinists who pay attention notice his calloused fingers and vaguely rhythmic way of operating the machines and talk about the craft for a while. He likes better than _them._

More than a few times, _they_ (mostly teenage girls) know him from Youtube. The video from last year, from that Julliard Intensive Concert, has made his face recognizable, even though his hair is shorter and he’s overall made of sharper angles, and he’s had to take selfies that end up on every type of social media he doesn’t have but Courfeyrac does. 

“Oh my god, you’re that guy. With the violin,” one says after ordering a small iced coffee, a blessedly easy order for a barista with an incredibly sore wrist. It might be swollen (it definitely is), but he has a fall evaluation recital this week and he can hide it from Combeferre. Probably.

“That’s me,” Enjolras says, and he notices his coworker whips around. Weird. He’s positive Feuilly has seen this happen before. “That’ll be $2.41.” The girl just stares at him before she quickly scans the purchase via her phone. “Do you want room for milk or sugar?”

“Um, no thank you,” she stutters, rapidly going red. “Thanks,” she adds when Enjolras hands her the drink.

“Have a good day!” he says cheerily, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he feels. He hates when this happens. Courfeyrac has film of it when he’s been in Starbucks, annoyingly sipping on the most complicated thing he could force Enjolras to make. 

“What was that?” Feuilly asks, as Enjolras goes back to helping him with dishes. 

“Oh, nothing,” Enjolras tries to dismiss, feeling his face go red. “It happens sometimes.”

“No, but honestly what?” Feuilly’s voice is full of confusion, and Enjolras is overwhelmingly happy that someone hasn’t watched the lowest moment of his life on Youtube. Or at least doesn’t know it was him. 

“There was a video about a year ago of me that went viral. It got a segment on the Today Show and everything,” Enjolras explains. “Um, I was playing the Brahms at Julliard and I just kind of snapped and made up a cadenza. I was bleeding on the stage, too.” 

“That was you?” Feuilly looks mystified. When Enjolras nods, biting his lip, Feuilly blushes a bit. His dark hands fumble with the dish he’s washing, and it’s obvious he’s embarrassed. 

“Yeah. And, unfortunately, people haven’t forgotten it yet.” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, before sighing. “It wasn’t my best moment. At all.” 

“My coworkers at the gift shop couldn’t stop talking about it. They’re all really into classical music and broadway and stuff, and… well, it was incredible. I’m assuming you’re studying violin at Julliard?” Feuilly continues to stumble, which is odd, because normally it’s Enjolras who’s reeling. He admires Feuilly more than anyone except for his two best friends; a self-made man working three jobs, but with some sort of art passion on the side. He’s never been specific about what he does, only that he hopes to transfer it to his primary profession soon. 

“I am, only because they fired Keating. He was…” Enjolras struggles, and is overwhelmingly relieved when more people file into the shop. 

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to talk about it,” Feuilly says in between their dance of orders and working the register. 

“It’s okay. It was a year ago, and, anyways, Julliard is… it’s everything I hoped it would be. Do you like, um, do you like classical music?” Enjolras asks as he makes the most complicated order since Courfeyrac two days ago.

“I love it. I’ve listened to it for as long as I can remember, and, well, I make violins.” Enjolras almost drops the cup of coffee at Feuilly’s words.

“Oh my god. That’s… that’s… I’ve only met a few violin makers.” He’s so enthralled with Feuilly right now, because that man is incredible. He’s never been to college or any sort of trade school for violin making and yet he does it? As if noticing the wonder, Feuilly subconsciously brushes his dreadlocks back behind his ear and redoes his ponytail. 

“Now we’re even.” Feuilly says happily. There’s a stretch of silence that isn’t silence at all, but the white noise that always happens when everyone’s getting their morning coffee or tea before rehearsal and class and everything.

“How long have you been making violins?” Enjolras asks after the rush. 

“I started learning when I was thirteen,” Feuilly answers. 

“How much do you sell them for, typically?” Enjolras isn’t unhappy with his violin, but he’s curious about how good Feuilly is at the craft.

“Well, I haven’t really been able to get my name out there, and my shop is in the basement of me and my roommate’s building.” Feuilly says, looking down.

“Um… I know this is going to sound presumptuous… but—“ Enjolras starts.

“You want to see them?” Feuilly asks, grinning. 

“Yeah.” Enjolras looks sheepish. “I understand if you don’t—“

“It would be an honor,” Feuilly gets out. “I don’t really do bows, though, so you have to bring your own.” 

“Oh no I totally get it. And I, I um, I can’t promise that I’m a serious customer… not at all. But I do go to Julliard, and I know people who—“

“You don’t have to make any promises. The fact that you’re just willing to give me a chance is enough,” Feuilly says honestly, and Enjolras can feel his heart swell. He wants to be this man’s friend so badly that it hurts. 

“I’m so excited,” Enjolras blurts out, before blushing madly. He quickly takes care of what appears to be Sutton Foster’s coffee order, before turning back to Feuilly, who is busy at the register. In between their odd dance of orders and payments, they manage to keep talking.

“I… can you bring your violin, too? I just want to hear how it sounds… how it sounds under normal circumstances. Does 7:00 work for you? It’s an hour after I get off my job at the tourist shop. We could meet here?” Feuilly offers. “Iced caramel Macchiato for Meghan,” he adds.

“I have a private tonight until nine. Maybe 9:15?” Enjolras offers, and Feuilly nods. Smiling, Enjolras switches with Feuilly at the register so that he doesn’t go mad doing the same thing for five hours each day.

“Hello, welcome to Starbucks, can I take your order?” Enjolras says, and immediately the person he isn’t sure is an adult or a teenager, but with shockingly blue hair, gets that look that gives away what’s going on. 

“Oh my god.” Enjolras bites back a sigh and tries to smile for yet another person who’s seen the video.

:: ::

“Hey, ‘Ferre. What’s going on?” Enjolras answers his phone as he walks down Broadway. He has ten minutes to meet Feuilly, his violin is hitting his back as he tries to maneuver the crowds, and his hand is dead. Saint-Saens has the unique ability to contort his hand like almost no other solo, and he knows there’s going to be hell to pay when Combeferre finds out that he’s killing his hand. But, you know, he’s in the top symphony as a freshman… and he has a solo at the first concert. His hand can take it.

“Are you coming home? Your lesson is over, yeah?” Combeferre asks.

“Yeah… um… I’m meeting my coworker. Feuilly makes violins,” Enjolras stumbles out, and there’s muffled talking and then a squeal that can only be Courfeyrac. 

“Courfeyrac thinks you’re in platonic love with this guy,” Combeferre translates. “There’s some people at the apartment, just studying for midterms and stuff, by the way. Did you eat?”

Yeah. Enjolras isn’t dumb enough to answer that. 

“Courfeyrac just put aside stuff in the fridge. Dammit, E, it’s past nine. You can’t tell me that you didn’t have time.” Combeferre’s voice is tired, and Enjolras knows he’s being stupid and difficult but it’s been a rough transition. Being back at Julliard is crazy in both the amazing ‘oh my god I made it’ and ‘I remember when Keating did x’ way, and Enjolras knows that Courfeyrac and Combeferre miss their families. Enjolras misses his family, too; he misses Bella and Hugo and Alex and even though they Skype it’s not the same as Poptarts on a Saturday morning before violin lesson or watching Frozen for the umpteenth time after a rough day. 

“I didn’t. I got off of work and went to theory and then my conductor called rehearsal early and I had lesson at seven instead of eight and I just got off. It’s fine, I have a power bar in my backpack or something, I think. And I’m even wearing the ridiculous hat and gloves you made me buy last week,” Enjolras explains. It’s almost November, and it’s starting to get cold, not that Enjolras really cares. “I really want to do this, though. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Why do you want to do this so much?” Combeferre asks. “Why is it so important that it’s tonight?” 

“Because I… I love my violin and everything, but it’s a little weak on the higher end of the g string and Saint-Saens is huge on that and if he’s as good as I think he is I could… I don’t want to sound like an ass or like I have a savior complex or something, but… if he’s good and he lets me use a violin and I play it at the performance… there are people who have enough money to buy whatever damn violin they want. I just… I’m in this position of privilege and I want to use it, ‘Ferre. I want to help,” Enjolras manages to get out.

“I think that you’re right. I hope you didn’t make him any promises, but I think it’s a good idea. But you haven’t seen the violins yet?” Combeferre sounds hesitant, but there’s a hint of pride in his voice. 

“That’s where I’m going right now. I’m almost there, so I’m going to have to hang up soon. I’ll call when I’m leaving?” Enjolras breathes out a sigh that’s half relief and half unbridled excitement. He can’t believe that he might be able to play some beautiful instruments no one else has touched. 

“Sounds like a plan. I can’t wait to hear about it.” Then his friend hangs up, and Enjolras hurries across the street, where Feuilly is already waiting. 

“Hey,” he greets, his eyes barely poking out of the huge scarf he’s wearing. “Ugh, I hate how cold it’s going to get.”

“Me, too. My fingers were like ice when I got to lesson today,” Enjolras says. “So, where are we going?” 

“Let me lead the way,” Feuilly offers. “It’s not that long of a walk. Unless you want to try to keep your violin warmer on the subway?” 

“It’s probably not worth it. There’s a reason I dropped a good chunk of my graduation money on a good case,” Enjolras dismisses, and watches Feuilly smile. 

“Cool. I have this violin I made about a year ago that I really want to hear you try—“ Enjolras lets Feuilly ramble about of the few of the instruments he’s made. It warms him up from the inside, because he loves listening to people talk so passionately about anything related to violin, to music. 

“Do you play?” Enjolras asks, as they make their way into one of the shabbier neighborhoods, probably home to a lot of people chasing dreams on Broadway. 

“I do, but I’ve never had any formal lessons, so I’m not that great. My roommate, Bahorel, he’s a dancer, currently in _On the Town_ , and he knows some friends who help me keep them warm and playable,” Feuilly explains. 

“How much… what’s a typical price for one of your violins?” Enjolras asks. Now, he’s following Feuilly into a narrow, red-brick apartment building, immediately grateful for the warmth. The stairs leading down to the basement are creaky and it feels damp in the room, but it’s better than being outside. 

“I haven’t really sold any yet. So I don’t know. I was kind of hoping, if you like them, if you could help me figure that out,” Feuilly sounds embarrassed, but Enjolras just smiles. 

“Definitely. But I’m pretty sure you’ll know better than I will.” With that, Enjolras waits as Feuilly unlocks a door, and he’s immediately hit with the familiar smells that he knows from every violin shop he’s ever been in. Quietly, he sets his case down on a table that isn’t covered with half-finished instruments, working on getting his violin and bow out and ready. 

“Who made yours?” Feuilly asks, as he takes off his huge coat and works at examining the violins he has out. From what Enjolras can see in the somewhat dim lighting, they’re beautiful. Some of the scrolls even have some decorative carving… Enjolras just hopes they sound as perfect as they look. 

“Scott Sleider, up in Wisconsin,” Enjolras answers. Feuilly lets out a low whistle; apparently he’s known even in New York. 

“Well, that’s tough to go up against,” he says. Enjolras makes quick work of retuning his own violin. 

“Do you want me to just play a little?” Enjolras is nervous. He isn’t nervous in rehearsal playing with people about to graduate from fucking Julliard, but he’s scared shitless to play in front of Feuilly. 

“Yeah. I just want to hear how it gels—maybe a bit of Bach and then some of whatever solo you feel,” Feuilly says, and Enjolras gets to work. He doesn’t fuck up the opening of Saint-Saens, which is weird, but the high c sharp threatens to crack. 

“I like it, but I don’t like what it did to that bit of Saint-Saens,” Feuilly muses, before presenting one of his own. “Here. I think this one’s stronger on that area… it’s only a year old.” 

Cautiously, Enjolras places his own violin down and puts his rest on Feuilly’s. After another quick tuning and a scale to get the feel, Enjolras is completely and utterly in love. It has such a pure, deep, dark sound… it makes the high stuff sound so much more effortless than it is. 

“Wow,” Enjolras says, but Feuilly just scrunches his nose. 

“It’s a little too dark. Here.” The process continues for a while. Enjolras, with what limited knowledge he has, can tell the quality of these violins. They could easily go for twice as much as his, some of them a lot more… probably past $100,000. They’re just… he can’t put words to what it’s like playing these instruments. They’re gorgeous, and in the right hands they could redefine the way people hear certain concertos. Hands far more capable than Enjolras’s right now. 

“Oh my god how did I not think of this one. This one is back in 2010 when I could still get really high quality wood for free,” Feuilly gushes, rushing to the back to pull a violin out of an absurdly crappy case. “You need to try this. It’s perfect for Saint-Saens, and Zig, and—“ he stops talking when Enjolras finishes tuning it. 

It feels… perfect. Even as it goes high on the G string, the notes remain luscious and deep, and when he goes on the E string they’re clear and with just the right twinge of sadness. It’s the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever played and it’s in the bottom of some apartment building at ten o’clock at night. 

“This is… I can’t… these are the best violins I’ve ever been able to play. Feuily, you have to start talking to people.” Enjolras says as he carefully hands that beautiful violin back to his coworker. “They’re incredible.”

“You really think so? It’s not just you? I think you could make a factory violin sound good, Enjolras. And I have been trying, but they just shut the door in my face… they don’t believe that I could make a good instrument,” Feuilly stutters. 

“No. I’m sure. I don’t have anywhere near the money to pay for what you should ask for these. But… I might have a way to help. If it goes correctly, you’ll never have to make another pumpkin-spice latte again.” Enjolras’s voice is genuine as he packs up his own violin. 

“What? What are you talking about?” Feuilly’s still moving quickly, putting all of his instruments back where they’re safe from his death-trap of an apartment building, but his face is a mix between hopeful and doubtful.

“I didn’t want to say this because I didn’t want to promise anything or sound like a jackass… I admired you because you worked so hard but now… okay I’m going to try this again.” Enjolras takes a deep breath, looking into Feuilly’s confused eyes. “I’m soloing with the school’s top orchestra at a concert in two weeks. If you would be willing, it would be an honor to play one of your violins just for that concert. Then, when everyone inevitably asks me about the violin, I can point them to you. A bunch of rich donors and shit go to these things, I’ve heard, and they’re always looking to buy instruments to lend to their favorite players and stuff.”

“Dude, that’s not being a jackass. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ever thank you enough for that. That’s… wow. You have to use the 2010 Sofia.” Feuilly is pacing the room, his hands to his mouth. “This is the biggest chance someone has ever given me.” 

“Like I said, I can’t promise what will happen. But I know what should happen, because I haven’t been lying when I’ve said these violins are insane,” Enjolras says. “But I do promise that I’m not trying to steal one or anything. You’ll be with it the entire time. I just… I just need to run it on the violin a few times before-hand… if that’s okay?”

“Dude. You could play it for hours and I’d sit there and smile through it all. Oh my god.” 

“So I guess it’s a plan. We can work out the details at the fun four a.m. shift tomorrow.”

:: ::

“You have that look.” Courfeyrac’s voice floats through the apartment. When Enjolras had entered, the people who had been there were gone, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre were still sitting up and studying.

“It’s almost eleven. Go heat up whatever the fuck is left in the fridge,” Combeferre says, but he’s lost his anger. 

“Are we not going to talk about why Enjolras looks like he just found out college is suddenly free?” Courfeyrac is standing up now, following his best friend into the tiny kitchen. 

“It’s his crush on Feuilly,” Combeferre teases, sitting down at the tiny, creaky table. His eyes follow Enjolras as he goes about shoving stuff onto a plate to put in the microwave, but it’s more of a gentle watch instead of the imposing disapproval that happens sometimes. 

“Those… I can’t believe I got to touch those instruments, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras is breathless, leaning his head against the newly closed microwave door to avoid looking at what is definitely going to be his friends’ teasing faces. 

“First: you’re an epic nerd. Like words can’t describe how much I will never understand how you’re so into violin. It ruins your streetcred with our friends, and they haven’t even met you yet,” Courfeyrac says, chuckling. “But also you’re so extremely happy that it’s adorable and I hate that. I can’t pull off music nerd.” 

“Did you make any promises?” Combeferre’s voice is concerned. 

“No, but—“ 

“He definitely did,” Courfeyrac cuts in, now frowning slightly. 

“Feuilly understands. But, honestly, the community needs to hear those instruments. I’ve never heard such new stuff sound so good… not even Sleider can compete. My violin sounds like a factory-made one in comparison. But, he has this one that’s so beautiful on Saint-Saens and he’s going to let me use it for the concert and if people ask he’ll be there. See? No promises.” 

“That’s not as bad as I thought,” Combeferre comments. “You really like these instruments, huh?” 

“I really like Feuilly, too.” Enjolras immediately responds. “He’s almost entirely self-taught, and he is phenomenal and hardworking and—“ 

“Yeah we get it.” But there’s no heat behind Courfeyrac’s words. Suddenly, Enjolras’s face pales. “Uh oh. What did you do?”

“I can’t fuck up Saint-Saens now.” Enjolras’s head goes back to leaning against the microwave, turned away from his friends. “I’m so fucked.” 

Courfeyrac just cackles as he stands up and pries his friend off the poor appliance and into a chair at the table. The plate follows suit. 

“We all know that’s not true. Now eat. You can practice tomorrow. Like you always do. For a really long ass time.” Combeferre’s words ring true. “We’re bringing some friends from class to the concert, by the way. That way you have to meet them.” 

“We don’t know why you’ve been avoiding them, really. They’re all lovely. But I wouldn’t let Bossuet near your violin—poor bastard has terrible luck and would probably trip and break it,” Courfeyrac explains. 

“If they’re friends with you I’m sure they’re fantastic,” Enjolras says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He’s too ashamed to admit he’s just afraid of being replaced, because he hasn’t been making friends at Julliard. They’re all either really awkward about the Youtube thing or think he’s some massive threat to be eliminated. 

“Not as fantastic as you.” It’s like Combeferre knows exactly what Enjolras is thinking, always. “But the point still stands. You need to meet them.” 

“Fine. Let’s hope they can’t tell when I make mistakes,” Enjolras says as he begins to pick at the food on the plate. 

“They can’t even read music, E. They’ll have no fucking clue.”

:: ::

“I have to go backstage now, but if you want my friends Courfeyrac and Combeferre are sitting over there and I promise I’ll try to do it justice,” Enjolras rambles as soon as he enters the theater.

“Calm down. I’ll be fine… either way, it’ll be good to hear it played.” Enjolras can tell his friend is nervous, so he just wraps his arms around Feuilly. The other man clings back, and they just stand there for a few seconds, letting out their mutual fears. “Kill it,” Feuilly says as Enjolras finally pulls away. 

“Just remember me when you’re rich and famous and thinking of ordering an absurdly complicated drink at Starbucks at seven in the morning,” Enjolras says, hiding his shaking hands in his coat pockets. Slowly, he turns to the group of people Enjolras had gestured at, running a hand nervously across his dreadlocks, which are pulled back into a professional ponytail. He’s wearing the best clothes he has, and if those people are Enjolras’s closest friends they aren’t going to be awful. So he nervously walks to where they’re sitting, pointing at the program. Immediately, two of them stand up.

“Combeferre, and this is Courfeyrac. You must be Feuilly,” the taller one says, and Feuilly can see intricate tattoo sleeves and a grin that shows behind the glasses. “We’ve heard a lot about you from Enjolras.” 

“Way too much,” Courfeyrac adds. “In a good way, I promise.” That gets a chuckle out of Feuilly, and from there it only takes a few minutes before he’s completely relaxed around these people. Bahorel would love Joly and Bossuet and their humor, and Jean Prouvaire talks about the concert program with ease and class. 

“You can’t tell Enjolras that Jehan knows things, or he’ll freak,” Courfeyrac says. “He’s so damn nervous about tonight already, and he was terrified that they were going to think he was bad.” 

“He’s nervous?” Feuilly gets out. “I mean, I’m terrified, but I feel like Enjolras has performed at much bigger things than this.” 

“It doesn’t matter. He gets really nervous… always,” Combeferre explains. “And it’s his first concert here since the whole Brahms thing and there’s a lot of pressure because he’s a freshman in a senior-level orchestra and he’s doing Saint-Saens so… yeah. Just normal Enjolras things.”

“Shit. You did not tell us he was the kid from that video,” Joly says. “R is going to freak when we tell him. He watched that thing non-stop for a week.” 

“R?” Feuilly questions. 

“The mysterious third member of the bad decisions trio. He’s just as elusive as Enjolras, it seems,” Jean explains. But that’s when the lights start to dim, and Feuilly feels his heart start beating faster and faster. So much rides on this one moment. 

“Good luck.” Combeferre’s eyes are warm, and they shine with compassion. Feuilly realizes just how much these guys are rooting for him, and he takes a deep breath as the applause start and the orchestra is tuned. There’s a chair missing a human at the third stand, and Feuilly inherently knows this is where Enjolras will be. Quickly, he glances around and sees people who definitely look unbelievably rich, but then there’s more applause and the conductor is gesturing as Enjolras, stiff with nerves but warm with the smile on his face, makes his way out to the front of the stage. None of the adult-looking students glare or give him any of the normal shade that a cutthroat school can create, but stomp loudly along. Enjolras is all sharp edges; Courfeyrac’s homemade undercut looks good with his sharp jawbones and hard lines in his shoulders. 

All it takes is a moment of silence for Enjolras to quietly check his strings before the opening tremolo starts and Enjolras quite literally takes flight. He can see the stunned faces as something more beautiful than they’re probably even used to starts to take shape; the colors are exactly what Enjolras had wanted, and Feuilly just lets himself fall into the music. After the stunning octave run, he hears Joly gasp, and for the first time Feuilly can see the flabbergasted faces of the people Enjolras has never met. 

But like with all things, the soaring notes and clear vibrato and beauty you can see in how Enjolras moves and the exact emotions in his face and the intensity dissipates into a single, ringing note. And then nothingness, as Enjolras finally lets some of his edges soften, and his grin is wide and radiant. The conductor is grinning wide, and as the applause roars and the crowd instantly rises in a wave, he gives Enjolras a crushing hug, and then the concertmaster does the same. 

“WOO!” Joly and Bossuet yell and whoop as some of the students do, and Enjolras takes his bow and accepts the flowers that are handed to him. But the applause doesn’t end. That’s when Feuilly realizes what he was just apart of, and turns his head away from the kid he’s so proud of and so incredibly privileged to know, to his two best friends. Combeferre, who slips the phone he was filming on back into his pocket, is grinning from ear to ear as he claps, and Courfeyrac is shaking as he runs a hand through his hair. That, Feuilly thinks, is when he realizes how lucky Enjolras is to have people like that. He wants that; he wants to be a part of that. 

But as Enjolras finally exits the stage and reenters a few seconds later with his own violin again, the concert continues as the tension grows in Feuilly’s chest. 

Enjolras has had his success. What’s going to happen to him?

:: ::

“Hello, and welcome to Starbucks. What can I get for you today?” Enjolras asks as he looks at the coffee he’s finishing drizzling with chocolate syrup. If someone looks closely enough, they can see the dark circles underneath his eyes and the taught tendons in his wrists that mean the kid is practicing too much.

“Oh my god you’re that guy with the violin!” a voice exclaims sarcastically, and immediately Enjolras’s eyes snap up. 

“Feuilly!” he exclaims, going for an awkward but enthusiastic hug over the counter. “I haven’t seen you in like a week!” Enjolras’s smile is wide for once, and Feuilly just chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve been a little busy. I can’t say I miss this place, though.” Feuilly’s voice is warm, and he can’t keep himself from smiling at the pure bundle of energy that now goes about making his regular order. Because he can afford Starbucks now, sometimes. 

“The new guy sucks, if it helps. And his music taste is shit,” Enjolras says. “How has it been going, though?”

“I’ve sold about half of my stock, but it’s quickly going back up now that I have time and good materials. I’ve finally taken care of the financial shittery that’s been the past few years, so Bahorel and I moved closer to here. Because now his commute isn’t as long and clients aren’t as scared of the address. We even have space for a studio in the apartment, now.” Feuilly explains, and watches as Enjolras grins even more. 

“That’s amazing. Has my one true love found its proper owner yet?” Enjolras asks, referencing the violin he had played. 

“Actually, about that…” Feuilly trails off, reaching down to pick up what’s definitely a violin case.

“No. We talked about this. I can’t,” Enjolras says firmly. Immediately after Feuilly had sold his first violin (for 200k, no less), he had tried to gift the 2010 Sofia to Enjolras. Of course, Enjolras had refused, because there’s no way he was going to take the kind of profit that violin could generate away from his friend. 

“That’s the thing. I’ve made a lot of money already, so much so that it isn’t going to be a problem. I don’t need to sell this one.” Feuilly’s voice is calm, even as he watches Enjolras’s hands start to shake as he makes coffee incessantly. “And I don’t want to make violins just for the money. I want them to make art.”

“I want to make art, too, but I’m just in school. That instrument needs to be out in the world, doing concerts and recordings and everything else. It wouldn’t see the light of day for at least three more years,” Enjolras responds, before shaking out his wrists. 

“You’ll have so many concerts, though, and if you’ve already landed a solo with Julliard’s top fucking orchestra, you’re going to do so much more. So think of it as an investment,” Feuilly tries. He knows why Enjolras is refusing, really, but it’s such a stupid reason. Feuilly knows that Enjolras thinks he’s taking away from Feuilly, or that he needs to make Feuilly know that he doesn’t owe Enjolras anything, but Feuilly also knows that that violin won’t sound the same in anyone else’s hands. Because that’s what they don’t tell you. You can make a gorgeous violin and it won’t sound like it should until that one person comes along, and sometimes you can make a shit violin but that same person comes along and it sounds gorgeous. How can he explain that?

“Okay. How can I explain this?” Feuilly sighs, as Enjolras finally finishes and hangs up his apron. “Have you seen Harry Potter?”

“Yeah. My not-so-little little brother loves it,” Enjolras replies, a questioning look on his face. (But Feuilly knows it’s mixed with the sadness that he gets when he thinks he can smell the soup his mom used to cook in the Italian district.)

“It’s like that. The wand chooses the wizard. The violin chooses the person. And this violin has been tried with a lot of people in the past few weeks, but it hasn’t sounded the same as it did when you played it. It just didn’t fit. I knew it was a finicky instrument but the people who have played it are incredible but that violin is stubborn.” Feuilly’s words are rushed. 

“I… I can’t. Feuilly, I just can’t.” It’s like it hurts Enjolras to say the words. “Look, I have to get back to work. But C squared want to see you again, and they want to be regaled by the tale of the last few weeks. Want to have dinner at our place?” 

“Sure.” Feuilly has a plan. “But only if you just accept it. You can think of it as a temporary thing, a loan or whatever. I know people do that to students who are doing competitions and have a shot at making it. I don’t know how else to say I want you to have this violin. Friends give each other gifts, right? This is a gift to you. And not because you helped me, but because I have heard you play and I have faith.” 

Enjolras looks incredibly conflicted. “If you think there’s someone who can buy it you better damn well call me.” 

“Yes!” Feuilly then envelops Enjolras into another hug. “I only have one condition. You have to tell me whenever you’re playing a concert or a recital with it.” 

“Deal.” There’s a pause, before Enjolras puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god I get to play that violin again.”

:: ::

“Yo, Feuilly, you have to sit down. Enjolras worked on this shit for an hour before you came,” Courfeyrac says after he takes a swig from his beer bottle.

“What?” It’s been a good night, full of talk and laughter and stories and Feuilly got to meet Enjolras’s siblings via Skype. 

“Well, he came home clutching the case like it was a newborn baby,” Combeferre jokes, and Enjolras turns bright red as he pulls out the beautiful violin.

As soon as the first notes of Hedwig’s Theme start to fill the apartment, Feuilly closes his eyes against the smiles and warmth of this apartment he’s slowly becoming a part of. 

Somehow, in this random clash of fate and music, Feuilly has made his first friend since Bahorel all of those years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please leave a review! Come say hi at tobeconvincedoflove.tumblr.com :)


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